


Brown Eyes

by Hunter_Caprittarius



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Betaed, Brown Eyes AU, Bullying, Friendship, I'm willing this AU into existence, Imperial Din Djarin, Imperial Officers (Star Wars), Officer Brown Eyes, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reformed Stormtroopers (Star Wars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:02:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28371309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hunter_Caprittarius/pseuds/Hunter_Caprittarius
Summary: Instead of being taken in by Mandalorians, Din Djarin was taken in by Imperial Troopers and raised as a soldier. Despite being a great fighter, after losing his hearing he ended up in Migs Mayfeld's squadron as the misfit outcast.Mayfeld, on the other hand, didn't give "Brown Eyes" the light of day until an incident that leads to them becoming friends.
Comments: 27
Kudos: 127





	Brown Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> There are tragically few fics about Din's alter ego, Brown Eyes, so I'm taking it upon myself to start us off. Enjoy!
> 
> Side note: I didn't write this with romance in mind, but feel free to read it that way! :)

No squadron is perfect; every one has its flaws, its quirks, its  _ misfits _ . Mayfeld’s squadron was lucky, they only had one, a man they called Brown Eyes. And Mayfeld was forced to admit that, as odd and unnerving as Brown Eyes often was, he was tame compared to the problem soldiers of some other squadrons. Brown Eyes didn’t get them penalized and was usually good about staying out of the line of fire, but he didn’t do much else either, which was the real problem.

Brown Eyes was almost deaf. Supposedly he hadn’t always been and had lost most of his hearing only a few years ago in a pressurization mishap. Communicating with the man was a struggle, as none of them knew any nonverbal languages, and shouting all the time was a pain. Most of the time, a point would suffice and Brown Eyes would go in whichever direction you pointed, a trick that brought the rest of the squadron no small amount of amusement as they gestured around pointlessly and watched Brown Eyes walk back and forth, confused as to what they were telling him to do.

People talked  _ about  _ Brown Eyes far more often than they talked  _ to _ him. And he seldom talked to them in return. Mayfeld suspected that it was less a side effect of the hearing loss and more from a natural tendency to be withdrawn. 

As such, the rest of the squadron knew hardly anything about Brown Eyes, not even his name-hence the pseudonym. He was basically deaf and assumed to be dumb. Treatment of the man was about equal to that of a droid with only a little consideration given to the fact that Brown Eyes, unlike droids, felt pain. 

His droid-like personage meant that the pointing game was not the only one they played with Brown Eyes to pass the time. This was helped along by the intense levels of boredom that existed between missions and the carefully cultivated mean-spiritedness of ground troops. 

One man, Rogers, would, at random times, jab Brown Eyes with some sharp object in an attempt to garner a reaction-often receiving only a confused look or unamused stare. Once his small jabs failed he escalated to punches and tripping. For a short time, those were received with yelps or heated glares and, on one notable occasion, retaliation.

They were all sitting in the canteen when it happened. Rogers was sitting near the peripheries of the group, hunched over in a tell-tale sign that his back was giving him a hard time. The man had been thrown off his speeder on their last mission, landing on a firm bank of sand and rock. While no bones had broken, the nasty bruises he earned were no treat either. Rogers massaged the sore spot on his lower back with one hand and used a spoon to push his curry around with the other. 

With his mood already poor, it was only a matter of time before he leveled his gaze on Brown Eyes, sitting across the canteen alone, and made his way over. 

“Oy, Droid-boy,” Rogers said in his heavy Eadu accent. Brown Eyes, expectedly, did not react. Several others in the canteen did, however. The other members of Mayfeld’s squadron and even a few from other squadrons who knew of the two turned to watch. Mayfeld, too, turned his attention from his overly spiced food to Rogers and Brown Eyes. 

“I wonder why they keep you around when you’re nothing but _bantha_ _fodder_ ,” Rogers said, loud enough that even Brown Eyes should have been able to hear him. “ Prob’ly figure killing you would be a waste of good bullets, so they’re waiting for some _rebel_ to do it for ‘em.” 

The verbal assault failed to produce. Brown Eyes’ attention stayed fixed on his food as he ate steadily, the spiciness of the dish not seeming to bother him in the slightest. 

So Rogers dumped Brown Eyes’ food into his lap. Brown Eyes froze, Rogers froze, the whole canteen froze. Then, very slowly, Brown Eyes stood, movements stiff and robotic. His brown eyes were steely when they met Rogers’, which glinted smugly. 

For a second, Mayfeld thought Brown Eyes would speak, but Brown Eyes only gritted his teeth and made to move past Rogers, no doubt in search of a refresher to clean up. But Rogers wasn’t satisfied, he shoved Brown Eyes back with a solid strike to the solar plexus. Brown Eyes reeled back, stumbling into his table, winded. He sucked in several shallow breaths, then coughed, “ _ Br’iaq _ !” 

Rogers’ face took on a feral grin, teeth glinting. “What's that?” He said, “Is that what they speak on  _ Aq Vetina _ ?” 

The name meant nothing to Mayfeld, neither did it to anyone else in the canteen. But it meant something to Brown Eyes, who underwent a shocking and sudden transformation in a split second. His entire body tensed and his eyes blew wide and in that moment his face twisted with the first real emotion any of them had seen from him: pure hatred. 

Rogers, on the other hand, was practically glowing. “Oh yeh? I knew that would get a reaction. Tracked down someone from your old transport crew for that tidbit. Said you don’t like talking ‘bout it. Why is that, I wonder? Was it  _ destroyed _ ? Because  _ I’ve _ never heard of i-”

A monstrous shriek tore through the air and half the canteen jumped to its feet. Blasters brandished, two dozen troopers searched for the creature that had made such a sound, and all at once, two dozen troopers realized that it was no creature but Brown Eyes. Before anyone could react, Brown Eyes was throwing himself at Rogers. He grabbed Rogers’ shoulders, swinging himself onto the larger man’s back in one quick move. Then he seized the man around the throat in a death grip and wouldn’t let go. Rogers flailed and bucked but Brown Eyes held on.

Only when Rogers’ face started turning an alarming shade of purple did Mayfeld shake himself from his stupor and realize he should intervene. He began trying to pry Brown Eyes off of Rogers to no success. It wasn’t until several others joined in that they successfully separated the two. 

Rogers collapsed into a heap and had to be half-carried to the med-wing. Mayfeld scanned the room for Brown Eyes but the man was gone. 

Rogers' injuries had not been permanent, neither had his fear. Not two weeks later he was trying to pick another fight, determined to win that one. But soon thereafter Brown Eyes stopped reacting altogether. Rogers would shove Brown Eyes and, other than stumbling a little, Brown Eyes would remain impassive. 

For most of the squadron, this simply reaffirmed their assumption that Brown Eyes was daft, solidifying his droid-ness in their eyes. A killing machine with an on switch that they’d better avoid when not on the battlefield. For Mayfeld, however, this was the first sign that Brown Eyes was, in fact, smarter than he let on. 

Whenever something more important wasn’t demanding his attention, he found himself watching the man intently. He scrutinized Brown Eyes’ every move on and off the battlefield, searching for those rare moments, those slips, where Brown Eyes was  _ human _ . And Mayfeld was shocked by how many signs there were. The tiniest of smiles when he “accidentally” misfired and brought dust and rock raining down on Rogers. The way his fingers would twitch whenever someone mentioned flying, betraying how he  _ missed _ being a pilot. How his eyes followed the others’ poker games with keen interest, the way he ever so sneakily stole chips from said games. 

It was embarrassing that he had managed to miss all of those things before, but the next revelation was even more embarrassing. Rogers was the one who brought it to his attention. 

“You and droid-boy friends or something?” Rogers demanded, cornering Mayfeld outside the rec room. 

Mayfeld just blinked, “Sorry?”

“What is up with you two fuckers, eh?” said Rogers, slowly, “You dating or some shit?” 

Mayfeld blinked again as his brain struggled to comprehend what he’d just been asked. Something about him and Brown Eyes, dating? Mayfeld burst into nervous laughter, laughing so hard that his sides started to cramp and he had to wrap his arms around himself to alleviate some of the aching. His eyes began to water. 

Rogers scowled, his face going red. “What’s so funny?”

Mayfeld choked a bit and took a second to calm himself. He fanned his face. “I’m sorry, just-what in Vadar’s name made you think  _ that? _ We don’t even talk.” 

Rogers’ mouth opened and closed a few times, going even redder, “You look at him all the time, you default to him during missions, you…” Rogers floundered… “ you don’t  _ ignore  _ him anymore.” 

Mayfeld was gaped and opened his mouth to deny the claims before, belatedly, realizing that they were true. “Shut up, Rogers,” he said shortly and left, Rogers lingering awkwardly in the hall. 

Later, sitting on his bed, Mayfeld thought about what Rogers had said. It shouldn’t have been surprising that he’d started to treat Brown Eyes like any other trooper in his squadron, it should have been that way since the beginning. But Mayfeld hadn’t noticed himself doing it. He supposed that as Brown Eyes was slowly reclassified as a  _ person _ in his mind, his behavior had subconsciously followed suit. He’d started treating Brown Eyes like he would any soldier of his ability, which was to say, a pretty damn good one. 

He massaged his temples, suddenly exhausted by the revelation that he’d started acting like a decent human being. When he went to bed that night it was with the promise that he wouldn’t make a big deal about it. 

That turned out to be harder than he expected. 

He kept catching himself checking Brown Eyes’ position, letting the man cover his back in battle, or going to react to something he was doing-something he shouldn’t have  _ noticed _ . It tripped him up, made him stumble. He tossed a discarded firearm to Brown Eyes, knowing the man knew how to wield two at once, then faltered as he watched Brown Eyes run into the underbrush, guns blazing without question. It was absurd. 

In his distraction, Mayfeld didn’t notice the rebel until it was right at his back. He turned just in time for someone to tackle the rebel to the floor. The blast from the rebel’s gun sizzled past his cheek, the heat leaving a surface level burn from proximity, missing him by centimeters. He stared at the dead rebel for a few seconds before raising his gaze to his savior, Brown Eyes, who had circled back. The man raised a brow as if to ask “What happened?” and Mayfeld could only shrug. 

When mealtime rolled around, Mayfeld grabbed his tray with steely determination. Marching straight past his usual table, he headed for the table in the back and its lone occupant. He set down his food and took a seat next to Brown Eyes, ignoring the interested stares, Rogers’ angry one in particular. 

“Thank you,” he said as a conversation starter. Brown Eyes looked up from his food and raised that same eyebrow as earlier and Mayfeld gestured lamely with his spoon. “For earlier, I mean. You saved my life.”

Brown Eyes’ expression stayed impassive but his eyes glinted with amusement and after a second his lips twisted wryly and he said softly, “You’re welcome.” 

And thus a partnership was born. Over the next several months the two grew gradually closer-more trusting, but it was slow. Brown Eyes still hardly spoke and Mayfeld was no social butterfly himself. 

Then Operation Cinder happened. Out of their entire squadron, only Mayfeld and Brown Eyes survived, thousands of others perished. 

They found each other on one of the base’s rooftop terraces and sat in silence between two large pipes, watching smoke curl into the sky. Neither man had been particularly close to the other squadron members but the loss was so tremendous and complete that it was crushing nonetheless. 

“Migs,” Mayfeld finally said. “Migs Mayfeld, in case you were wondering.”

“Din.” 

Nothing else was said that day, nor the next, nor the several after that, nor when Migs knocked on Din’s door late one night with darkened eyes and a packed bag. Din simply nodded and pulled his own bag out from under his bed where it had been waiting. 

As they marched through the dense jungle, they bid their fallen comrades a wordless goodbye. The past, they knew, would never die, it would continue to chase them across oceans and galaxies, but together they would forge a new future out of fire and determination.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to be adding the second (and last) chapter soon. Cara will be joining the squad and we'll see some of what Migs and Din have been doing.


End file.
